When the Prophet heart's delight Knew the dreams that round them tended, Or the dreadness of the fall. First love is like our earliest Play! What enchantment of survey! Every scene and whisper giveth And the Musick's voice is gone, And the lights fade one by one; Rushes the black-winged Silence fast! But Julian's heart was proud and stern, A spirit ever wont to yearn For action in some broader field. Through the moist dawn's slow-waning haze, When broke, and scatter'd faint and wide, The world beneath some sleepless eye surveys! He turn'd him with a silent heart, Unto the daily cares of clay, The dullest breast can act its part, When sorrow is the play. But those who knew him mark'd the soul, It chill'd, it sadden'd while it shone, From his youth upward he had fed On lonely, but on daring thought, And now the altering charm was fled, His ancient food he sought; Oft would he sit for hours, and mark The wan moon creep her weary way, And hold communion, sad and dark, With that true Genius of our clay, Urger of Hope-Woe-Virtue-SinThe unsleeping Second-Self within! And, when the morning came, you saw Upon his cheek the haggard brand, Which one might bear, whose spell could draw The Spirit from its land. The fallen lip, the harass'd brow, The wrung exhaustion, and the awe! Alas! the soul has fiends that sear, As aught, escaped from Nature's law, Of those whose kingly charm could bow Of old, the monster-powers of Fear ! Whose daring souls were nerved to brave The dark things of the riven grave; Girt with the menaced fire, to breast The lighnings of the armed Priest; Trample the fears of nature-quell The flesh, by one immortal spell, And shake the very Thrones of Hell! Arch Rebels of our tyrant BirthThe more than monarchs of the earth, Humbling that dread, and shadowy world, Around our own so dimly curled; Who, mightier than the Heathen's God, From Fate herself usurped the rod, And made her rent recess the cells, Voiced with a mortal's oracles. Sceptering the mysteries of the Deep, The Whirlwinds in their Mountain-keep ; The Seasons in their rounded march, The wan Kings of the starred Arch; Rapt above Nature and o'er Time, By lore too glorious to be crime! Days went; and Julian's schemes at last, Improved are now the bribes of old, And, tho' not oft, our lovers yet, Oh! what a soft and lovely shroud Of thought hangs o'er such mournful meeting! The grief consoled--the comfort vow'd-- Are memories far too fond for fleeting. As some benign and gentle shade |